


Before We Bury the Maps

by traveller



Series: The Dragon's Mouth [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-09
Updated: 2006-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Jack Sparrow has been dead for a year and a day when the Commodore-That-Was gives him a watch.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Before We Bury the Maps

Jack Sparrow has been dead for a year and a day when the Commodore-That-Was (his rank is more ceremonial than not anymore; he answers to both Captain and Ambassador) gives him a watch.

It is not an expensive thing – silver, made for use instead of show – but there is a fine etching on the cover, a bird caught in flight. Jack runs his thumb over the lines.

 _Barbados, Barbados is the nearest silversmith, and what were **you** doing, trading down at the docks?_

-Thank you, he says. The watch ticks against his palm.

Norrington inclines his head, his lips curving so, just so, and bids Jack a good night. His heels ring on the floorboards.

Jack Sparrow is dead, he does not sail, he does not need a watch anymore than he needs a hat or boots. He puts the gift back in its box, he wraps the box in a rag and tucks it away in his small chest of belongings, under his second shirt and his second breeches and the fine coat that Norrington had given him one day for no apparent reason.

Perhaps it had been Christmas. Jack doesn't know.

::

The next evening it's a compass, well-made and true, the casing beautifully carved with a motif of waves. Jack balances it in his palm and the needle does not waver; he turns and so too does the needle. The wood is rich, black and polished to a high shine; it fits in his hand like an egg in a nest.

He snaps the case closed, his mouth open to say something—

 _you can't give me things, not like these, it isn't right, it isn't right to mock a ghost_

—but Norrington only says good night and turns away.

::

The third night brings a telescope, exactly the kind that Jack has never had: smooth clean brass that grows warm in his hand, the lenses clean and focused. It would fit just so in the inside pocket of a greatcoat, had he still a greatcoat, but he doesn't.

The plate screwed to the shaft of the telescope bears a monogram worn almost away by years of handling, but still readable in the lamplight. Jack clears his throat – he speaks so rarely that he must cough out the rust first – but Norrington only smiles his cat-smile and shakes his head.

-I've another, he says, and steps toward the parlour doors.

-Why? Jack says.

 _why are you taunting me, it was quits between us, I'm no pirate anymore, no sailor anymore, no enemy, no threat. why do you give me these things that you know I cannot use?_

Norrington's throat ripples under his stock, and Jack takes a step forward and Norrington takes a step back.

-Good night, Jack, he says, and the tails of his jacket flutter as he goes.

::

On the fourth night the gift comes after dinner, after Jack has had his bread and wine and bit of beef, and Norrington has tried to talk enough for the both of them. On the fourth night Norrington puts two fingers on Jack's wrist when Jack makes to rise and says,

-Stay a moment.

Jack nods, all right, because how much worse could it get? How much more humiliating could it be?

In the silk pouch there are three gold rings; Jack cups them in his palm and turns his hand so and so to watch them catch the light. He has no need to bite them. He coughs, and his ribs rattle.

-You took me from the sea, and the law says you may keep me, Jack says. There's no need for… this.

Norrington bows his head.

-I won them at cards, he says, his voice six fathoms deep. Except for that one. He reaches out with one finger and touches the ring that is thicker, heavier than the other two. That one I won at dice.

-Commodores don't gamble.

-Ambassadors do. Norrington closes Jack's fingers over the rings, and his palm is warm and dry.

Jack wets his lips.

-They are gift, not a shackle, Norrington says, and rises from his chair with a bow. Good night.

A gift, an act of piracy, a gift unlike the others and cannot be hidden in the chest with them. Jack finds that all three fit in a stack on the middle finger of his right hand; he takes the silk pouch and puts in it the gold rings from his ears.

He leaves the pouch by Norrington's place at the table; in the morning the pouch is gone and there is a suspicious shine in Norrington's topmost buttonhole.

::

-Courting you, he says that night, the fifth night, Is like courting the sea herself.

Jack shakes his head.

-You shouldn't, he whispers. James… don't.

 _don't do this to me_

The lamp sputters, the weatherglass is falling. James shrugs.

-I don’t' believe I'll take your advice, Jack.

Jack cocks his head.

-Why not?

-Because it was you that gave it.

Jack's laugh is dusty, and out of tune; James' teeth flash over his lip. It sounds like someone is knocking at the door, but it is only the rain.

That night, the fifth night, brings a book – no title on the cover but the compass rose burnt into the leather tells Jack all that he needs to know. He traces the points, his finger lingering over north.

Charts. A watch, a compass, a telescope and charts. Jack feels the weight of the rings as he handles the book: an anchor, too, has James given him.

-You're not dead, James whispers.

-Am I not? Jack whispers back.

-No.

-No.

James' face is all angles, his mouth is too wide, his chin is too sharp; his eyes are pale in the lamplight; he is no kind of beauty that Jack has ever admired. He cannot be stolen, he cannot be charmed. A lock of his hair has escaped its ribbon, and lays dark across his cheek.

Jack rises, leaving the book behind; he crosses the parlour and reaches to tuck the bit of hair back behind James' ear. They both draw breath and hold it, shaking, like a ship stirring at its moorings, waiting.


End file.
